Unnatural Creatures
by Star Tae
Summary: In the future, some things never change, while others are never what they seem.Will be rated M in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Okay. You know the drill. Drizzt, Guen, Bruenor, etc. are R.A.'s. Mychal, Bruenor (the Drow), their parents, Brek, among a few others, are pulled from my mind as how the story should go. Enjoy (I hope).

* * *

"Bruenor, behind ye!"

At the shout, a young drow twirled about, short swords blocking the creature's claws from finding a purchase in his exposed back. When the dark elf had dispatched his attacker, he turned startling green eyes upon his companion. "Mick, I ne'er thought I'd be sayin' it, but I'm fer retreatin'!" Any further words he might have wished to share were cut off as he was once more engaged in battle, his body contorting in what seemed to be impossible positions as he danced between the claws of his adversaries.

"Aye! Me think yer reet," his fair skinned companion answered, as he too fought to stay a step ahead of his foes. Lopping off the claw of one of the beasts with his twin halberds, the one called 'Mick' cast his golden gaze toward his cousin. "We need to get word to Grady an' the rest o' our kin. Tis unnatural creatures we be fightin' here." A sound behind him alerted him to danger, causing him to turn toward battle once more, silvery white hair snapping like a whip from the force. Not fast enough.

Mykail Do Úrden found himself pinned to the forest floor. He was aware of his cousin, Bruenor, calling out to him, but only partially. As he stared into the crazed eyes of his captor, he thought only one thing. _Misha, I be needin' yer help, me friend! _

As he sent the thought out, his eyes, perhaps by some trick of the waning light, resembled those of a cat. A growl rolled from the twisted creature's throat as its jowls snapped at the trapped elf, only to bite down on the mithril handle of a halberd before the weight of a large, white feline knocked it from its purchase atop the elf. Mykail released his hold on the trapped halberd, willingly surrendering its use for the sake of keeping his shoulder in its socket. Once Misha finished the beast off, Mykail retrieved his weapon, grabbed a hold of his cousin's cloak, and ran, knowing Misha would stay close.

"What could've made these things, do ye think, Mick?" Bruenor breathlessly enquired as they raced through the woods, crashing through any underbrush they came upon.

"I do no' know, cousin! But I'm sure we'll find 'em reet enough. We're bein' herded!" The two continued to race through the wood, gazes fastened to the distance in case of trouble ahead. Night had settled upon them, casting the forest in eerie shadows. Dark forms seemed to flitter about among the shrubbery around them, leaving them with the impression of being watched: an understandable feeling when one of those shadows separated from the surrounding darkness to block their path. "Drow! Should've known," Mykail said. Other shadows began to separate from the foliage, meaning to surround the two cousins. They refused to slow. Instead, the two Do Úrdens sped up as fast as their weary bodies would allow. Their goal was to force through the Drow perimeter before it was fully set. "Do ye still 'ave some o' Gram's holy water, Bruenor."

"Aye!"

"Good. Cause we're to be needin' it!" Mykail called out, just as a barrage of darts rained down upon them.

* * *

"What's keepin' the lads! They should've been back by now!" The dwarven king cast his sharp eyes upon his elven companion, as the two stood on a natural shelf hewn by time from the mountain side.

"I do not know, Bruenor. Perhaps I should go look for them." Lavender eyes met those of the wizened old dwarf, noting how heavily his friend leaned upon the rod that now rested in his hands more often than his axe.

"Aye, yer reet. We should." Drizzt turned to see his son, Zaknafein, behind him. "Granda's got a point. They should've been back by now." Drizzt allowed his gaze to take in his son's mithril armor, befitting a prince of Mithril Hall. His son's swords—one of which had belonged to CattiBrie—were at his waist. Behind Zak stood his younger sister, Kaitlyn, with both of their spouses. "I be knowin' me boy is full o' mischief," Zak stated, "but 'e wouldn't be foolin' on patrol. They're a day late. That's no' like 'em."

"I agree with me brother, Da," Kaitlyn added. "Our lads should've been back by now. Ye know they 've a way of findin' trouble"

The familiar ache touched Drizzt's heart as he looked into their eyes. They were the eyes of their mother. "Then we go."

* * *

Mykail glanced about his immediate area as he ran, Bruenor in tow, in hopes of finding something to use to their advantage. Nothing appeared at first. However, a second glance around showed he knew the area, and, if he was right, there was a low cliff face carved from the mountain only a few hundred yards away. It wasn't really a solution, but it would force the enemy to approach them from one side only, blocking all other alternatives. Turning to his right, he ran for the cliff face, wincing as another dart struck him, this time in the neck. "The holy water, Bruenor!" he called to his cousin, deftly catching it without breaking stride. Taking a swig, Mykail soon felt it countering the Drow poison. He tossed it back to Bruenor. "Best ye take a nip of it yerself!" Mick said, as they finally started up rocky terrain to their destination.

"Aye!" Bruenor said in answer, adding, "Ye do know, cousin, that tis suicide to be puttin' our backs to the wall, don't ye?"

Mick flashed him a grin, "I thought ye said ye worked better under pressure, Bruenor!" Earning a crack of laughter from his companion, as he added, "Besides, I'm awful tired o' runnin', aren't ye?"

"Well, grandda always says we shouldn't run from our troubles!" Bruenor quipped as they slowed, turning to face the enemy as the Drow bled from the tree line. They were more numerous than the two had previously thought. "Course, I'm no' certain he meant it fer this many troubles, Mick," Bruenor stated, casting a worried glance at his fair-skinned cousin. "I'm thinkin' this isn't just a chance meetin' with a wee lil' raidin' party, what say ye, Mick?"

"I believe these might be huntin' fer Do Úrdens, Bruenor," Mykail answered, as he spotted two Lloth priestesses step out of the woods into the waning moonlight. The two Do Úrden cousins tightened their grips upon their weapons, bracing themselves as the Drow made their swift, but cautious approach. Bruenor tapped his short sword against Mykail's halberd, drawing his attention.

"Might we be hopin' fer a lil' assistance?" Bruenor asked when he met his cousin's gaze. Mykail simply grinned, his eyes once more marked with an eerie slant to the pupil, before cries broke out among the Drow ranks on both sides. "What's happenin'?" Bruenor added at the sight of a squirmish.

"The Drow were spread a lil' thinner than they should've been, so a kindly pack of wolves offered to point out this lil' discrepancy." Bruenor grinned, as Mykail added, "and o' course we've Misha on the other side makin' friends, though she tends to play a lil' rough as you know."

"Aye, that I do," Bruenor said, nodding sagely. "But ye know, me conscience doesn't seem troubled wi' the idea o' yer cat makin' chew toys out of Drow," Bruenor quipped, as his blade whipped out to meet the first of their attackers to make it up the short, rocky climb to the cliff face.

Mykail laughed, the fear and adrenaline drawing out the light banter with his cousin, dispelling his usual reserve, as he playfully added, "How yer sayin' so has relieved me mind ye've no way of knowin', cousin!" He then danced a little to the side to engage the next Drow soldier to approach them in battle, quickly dispatching him. The dance continued, the cousins more than accustomed to each other's style, so that their moves easily complimented one another. They were holding off the Drow surprisingly well considering the odds were decidedly against them, when a green glob of goo slammed into Bruenor, pinning him to the cliff face behind them.

"Bruenor!" All joking aside, Mykail struck the blades of his current adversary to the side, ducked, and rolled till he stood between the Drow and Bruenor. "How bad is it? Can ye move at all?" Mykail asked, currently unable to study his young cousin's situation. He heard Bruenor's grunts, as he attempted to fight the Lloth priestesses' little spell.

"It's no good, Mick. I'm stuck fast," Bruenor confessed. "The spider witch hit me dead center. Run fer it, Mick!"

"And leave ye here to fight them with a hard stare? O'er me dead, decayin' body!" Mykail assured him.

Bruenor's smile—though Mykail failed to see it—was grim, as he pointed out, "At this rate, Mick, it very well will be." As he spoke, the Drow soldiers fell back, causing a moment of confusion for the two defenders, until Mick sank into what was once solid rock. "Mick!" Bruenor yelled, helpless and unable to aid his cousin.

As his feet sank, Mick dropped his halberds, falling back. His hands, like his feet, sank into the stone. The stone then solidified once more, effectively ensnaring his limbs in stone bindings. The Drow soldiers still held back. Instead, the cousins watched, struggling futilely, as the priestesses approached.

The two priestesses were undeniably beautiful, but—if their Drow family members taught the two of them anything about the Drow—the beautiful ones often proved to be the cruelest. A chill ran down Mykail's back as one of the two drew her sword, her eyes locked onto him as she approached. Cries sounded from the ranks of Drow: further difficulties for the Drow that were yet unknown. The priestess with the sword rattled something off to the other in their tongue, never taking her eyes from Mykail. The other priestess reluctantly left to see what might be causing the disturbance among the lower ranks.

"Ye stay away from 'im, ye spider whore!" Bruenor shouted, as the priestess and her naked blade glided closer to his cousin.


	2. Chapter 2

As mentioned before, Drizzt and the Companions of the Hall (who are still alive) belong to R.A. Salvatore, but the rest are mine Enjoy! Feel free to criticize. I don't where my feelings on my sleeve. Promise.

Drizzt Do Úrden held up his hand, calling a halt to the group as Guenhwyvar came barreling out of the wilderness to their left. She let out a startling roar, filled with anxiety, before wheeling about and launching herself back into the direction she had come. The party from Mithril Hall followed after her.

It was not long before carcasses of strange creatures were seen strewn across the landscape, causing the party to investigate, though Guen disappeared into the night. "They look similar to the hook horrors from the Underdark, except they are not," Meart stated, his golden eyes taking in the carnage.

"They are not the only things here reminiscent of the Underdark," Drizzt said, as he pointed out a carcass of a different kind. Ice seemed to flow through the hearts of each in the party at the sight of the Drow.

Meart's eyes shifted, as he called out to the surrounding area. "A pack of wolves nearby gave aid at my son's request, but were driven back once they lost the element of surprise. Our children are facing off with the Drow nearby!" he said, charging off into the night, the others behind him. Guen had already joined in the battle against the Drow.

Meart's fear fueled his mad dash. His son, his fair-skinned son, would likely be the first the Drow would seek to kill. The same skin that allowed Mykail such liberty among the races on the surface would be his bane against the Drow. They would thirst for Mykail's blood more than Bruenor's. His golden eyes grew hard as he thought of what he would do if his son was dead. His despicable kin would pay if they had harmed a single fair strand of his head.

* * *

The Drow priestess didn't even glance in Bruenor's direction, despite his insults and threats. She swung the blade down toward Mykail, "No!" Bruenor called. However, she stopped it just above Mykail's throat. Instead of cutting him, she slid the bared blade from his chin to his collar, lightly grazing him, and smiled. She then spoke, in her own tongue, the words coming out as a purr. "What's she sayin', Mick?"

"How am I to know?" Mykail asked, never taking his eyes from the enemy before him. "I know as much Drow as yerself!" An arrowhead suddenly came within a few inches of Mykail's eye, as the priestess knelt, touching his face, only to have an arrow pierce her breast from behind.

"She said something along the lines, 'You look delicious, laid out like a delectable offering or something.'" As the priestess fell, a woman stepped into view. Her form was covered in the borrowed cloak of a dead Drow soldier. Her eyes had a faint glow to them in the night, suggesting some elven blood, as they scanned the forms of the two trapped elves. A soft chuckle escaped her as she knelt beside Mykail, studying him. "I must say, I agree with the spider spawn. You look good enough to eat," she said, smiling down at him. Though her night vision was not as strong as a full-blooded elf, she still had the pleasure of observing his blush as it traveled down his throat, disappearing beneath his armor.

She turned away, giving a whistle, before setting her gaze on Mykail once more. "Could ye be helpin' us out of this by chance?" Bruenor asked, drawing the woman's momentary attention.

"It depends. What's in it for me?" she asked, smirking.

"What is it ye want?" Mykail asked, drawing her gaze back to his, though she allowed it to travel a lazy path over his entire form first.

"Oh my," she whispered, wetting her lips, "that question opens a world of possibilities, doesn't it?" Her voice was naturally deep, more like that of a dwarven female than an elf, and slightly rough. Mykail couldn't help liking it, nor could he ignore the pleasant feel of her warm breath as it ghosted across his cheek.

"Heard your signal," a man's voice stated, startling Mykail. Behind the woman stood a well-armored human, and a rather tall one at that. "The Drow are routed. The other priestess disappeared with the few that were left," he reported.

"I was hoping you would have taken down the other priestess, but I suppose we can't always get what we want," the woman replied. "Fetch Neal. We have some elves here who could make use of his magics." The man nodded and slipped away again. The woman then picked up where she had left off, a slow smile spreading across her face, "Now, about that price." She leaned forward, burying a hand in silvery white hair. Her lips brushed lightly across Mykail's jaw as they traveled to his ear.

Bruenor was dying of curiosity. He watched as whatever words the woman whispered caused his cousin's image in the infrared to flare white-hot, before Mykail attempted to stutter out a response. His cousin had never been at a loss for words in his life. Before Bruenor could demand to know what was being said, the woman spun around, sensing someone's approach, to find a large, black form bounding up to them. "Guen!" Bruenor called. "Am I e'er glad to see ye, girl," which garnered a greeting rumble from the panther.

"I take it she's with you?" the woman asked, a little guarded, since the size of the panther exceeded any she had ever seen.

"Well, she wasn't with us earlier, but it would seem our kin must've been a mite worried," Bruenor corrected.

"We did have a white cat with us, though. Did ye see him?" Mykail asked, as Guen bathed his face with her tongue, the woman's earlier words forgotten for the moment.

Her eyes were alight with amusement at the sight of the panther lavishing attention on the trapped elf, as she acknowledged seeing the other feline taking out Drow around the perimeter. "We saw the cat as an ally, so none of my party harmed him."

"Mychal! Bruenor!"

Mychal started from the sudden call before answering it, "Da! Da, we're here, Da!"

Mychal was unable to see around his overjoyed panther friend, but he did hear as someone challenged his father, to which his father replied, "Let me through, or are you attempting to hold my son against his will?"

Sensing that the situation could turn ugly, the woman reluctantly left the trapped elves, and jogged down the rocky terrain to where her group was barring the path of a Drow. Her eyebrows rose at the sight. "Let him through, Brock. This would appear to be the father of one of our trapped elves."

"He is Drow, Mareth!" Brock replied.

"Indeed he is, as are those trapped above. One of the Drow of Mithril Hall, if I'm not mistaken," she answered.

"Ye're no' mistaken, woman," a voice answered, before several more forms left the tree line. "Ye've aided our kin by all appearances, so we're reet thankful fer yer help, but we've a mind to see our sons," continued this new Drow. Several of the eyes gazing at Mareth and her group glowed lavender, marking them undeniably Do Úrden. One set of those eyes, with the form to which they belonged, approached, placing a hand on the shoulders of the first two males of Mithril Hall to speak.

"I apologize if we seem rude, but we are anxious over our kin. I am the ranger, Drizzt Do Úrden, this is my son, Zaknafein, and my daughter's husband, Meart." Pointing to the rear, he introduced the Drowess, Neva, Zak's wife, and Kaitlyn. "May we see them, please?"

"Well met, Drizzt Do Úrden," Mareth replied, his name alone causing the rest of her party to lower their weapons. "Of course, we were just about to see if our mage, Neal, could get them loose," Mareth added.

"Loose?" Drizzt asked, as the rest of his family ran by to check on the youngest Do Úrdens.

"They're a little stuck at the moment."

"Bruenor Battlehammer Do Úrden! What have you gotten yourself into now!" Drizzt and his current company heard up the hill.

"Mum, tisn't me fault this time! Mick, tell her it couldn't be helped." Drizzt smiled as he heard his son's relieved laughter cascading from above. "Da, it's no' funny!"  
"Zaknafein, stop laughing please, and find a way to get our son off that wall," Neva interjected.

As Drizzt hiked up to the cliff face, with his newest allies behind him, his heart lightened to see his family safe. He found the woman, Mareth, had not exaggerated. Mychal was securely trapped in the rock foundation, Kaitlin and Meart currently fussing over him, demanding to know if he was injured as well. Bruenor was still defending himself against his mother, while stuck with green slime to the cliff wall, as his father, Zak, attempted to regain his composure. Drizzt's eyes danced with laughter, though only a small smile touched his face. His grandson did look ridiculous, like a giant creature had sneezed on him, plastering him with his arms all askew. "You said your mage, Neal, might be able to help?"

His words effectively stilled all other conversations. Neva made her way back toward Drizzt and Mareth. Saluting the woman, Neva asked, her green eyes pleading, "Your mage can get my foolish son off the wall?"

"Mum!" Bruenor called out, indignant.

"Does he know a spell fer gettin' our boy outta the rock?" Kaitlin asked from where she sat beside her son. Brushing her unruly auburn hair behind an ear, she then grasped her husband's ebony hand in her fair one as she awaited the answer.

"Neal?" Mareth turned to a slim figure behind her, one who was obviously not a warrior.

"I'll see what I can do, though the rock might prove to be a problem." At Kaitlyn's anxious expression, he added, "I'll do everything I can."

"You had better," Mareth told him, only half playing. She had a stake in it as well. Her eyes met those of Mykail. She was rewarded once more with a brilliant blush. She chuckled softly, realizing the trapped elf must be thinking on her last whispered words to him. She winked at him, a slow smile spreading across her face. She watched, fascinated, as his blush brightened even more.

"What is the matter, my son?" Meart asked, noticing his son's altered coloring.

Mykail dropped his gaze from that of the woman's, before answering, "It's nothin', Da. Just bein' stuck like this tis a bit embarassin'." He felt his father's hand at the back of his head.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, Mykail."

"Perhaps no', Uncle, but we'll ne'er live it down!" Bruenor interjected, casting a resentful eye toward his own father, who still couldn't look in his direction without chuckling.

"Ye're reet, son," Zak said, a grin stretched across his handsome face as he placed his hand against his son's cheek, clear of the goo, "but at least ye'll be livin'."


	3. Chapter 3

As before mentioned, I know it's a pity, but Drizzt is not mine. He and his Companions are the property of R.A. Salvatore. Mykail, Misha, Neva, Meart, Brek, etc. are mine.

This chapter is out of the generousness of my heart. I'm starved for reviews

As the sun crept over the horizon, its first morning rays found Bruenor Battlehammer DoÚrden at a nearby stream with his mother. The mage had managed to release the adhesive quality of the goo, but its presence was still felt. "Lean your head back, my son," Neva instructed, applying more soap to her hands before attacking Bruenor's curls once more.

"Ah! Mum, that hurts!"

"I'm sorry, Bruenor, but that slimy-ick-is stuck in your beautiful curls."

"I can wash me own hair, mum. I'm full grown ye know," Bruenor reminded her.

"You wouldn't have bothered washing it out at all if I hadn't insisted," Neva told him. "You have the cleanliness of a dwarf," she added, pouring her freshly filled water skin over his head.

Bruenor hissed as the icy water met his scalp. "I'll take that as a compliment, lessen ye mean Uncle Pwent," he replied.

"The very same."

"Now, mum, that's down reet cruel, and ye know it," Bruenor protested. "I do no' smell like Uncle Pwent."

"No, you don't," she acknowledged. "I make you bathe, though I have been tempted to force the same on that old dwarf," she added, pouring the rest of the water onto his head. Satisfied that the green was all gone from his closely cropped curls, she then dried them with her cloak. The brisk movement of the cloak stilled though, as she paused in her ministrations to place a tender kiss on his damp locks, a single tear escaping her eye.

"I'm alreet, mum. No' a scratch on me," Bruenor softly reminded her, as he reached up and grasped one of her slender hands. He felt her fingers tighten around his own for a moment, before releasing them. He heard her sniffle, causing him to glance back.

Neva ran her fingers through her son's curly locks, across his brow, his cheeks, down his nose, and across his chin, before pulling him into a tight embrace. "If I had lost you…"

"Ye didn't and ye won't, mum."

Bruenor and Neva picked up their supplies and made their way back to the cliff face where the mage, Neal, still worked to free Mychal. As they walked arm in arm, they heard the unmistakable sound of heavily armed dwarves trampling through the forest. "No sign of 'em yet, me king!" Bruenor shared a look with his mother.

"Speakin' o' smelly dwarves," Bruenor said, chuckling, before calling out, "Uncle Pwent! We be reet here, ye ole coot!"

"I can't seem to find anything among my supplies for countering this. It isn't purely magic, but a manipulation of the elements," Neal stated. "I hate to admit it, but it's beyond me."

Kaitlin soothed her son, brushing her fingers across his brow as his head rested on her lap. His arms had begun to ache after the first hour, then his neck, so that Kaitlin had slid behind him to relieve the strain. "Do no' worry, Mick. We'll get help fer sure," she said, just as a ruckus sounded below, where everyone, but the mage and Kaitlin, had retreated while the mage worked to free Mychal.

"Where's the rest o' 'em, lad. Up there ye say! Course I can climb it, ye durned elfling!" The occupants of the hill perked up at that voice.

"Grady!" Mychal called out, feeling a little childish, but not really caring. "Grady! I'm stuck in the rock!" A dwarf with a battered old helm crested the rise into view, battle ax in one hand. His red beard was laced with streams of silver, but his eyes were sharp and clear.

"Me boy, ye're imp o' a cousin dun told me. Ye're alreet though? No' hurt?" Mychal shook his head. "Good," he said, with a satisfied nod, before turning back to look down the hill behind him. "Stumpet! Hurry yerself up here, woman, and get our lad outta the durned mountain already!" The old dwarven king hollered. Relief washed over Mychal at his Grady's words. Gram was with him.

Just then, Bruenor crested the rise, and with him was a dwarven cleric. "Gram! I'm so glad to be seein' ye. Get me outta here, please," Mychal begged, near to the point of tears.

"Shush, me lamb. I'll get ye out," she said, as she made her way to his side. "Let's have a look at ye." She studied the rock which encased her great-grandson, paying particular attention to the portions immediately surrounding his limbs. "Alreet, ever'one down the hill. It's too durned crowded." Kaitlin made to protest. "You too, me girl. I'll no' have ye sink in while I'm pullin' him out," Stumpet said. However, Stumpet caught her arm as she made to leave. "Send that brawny feller up when ye get down there, Kate. I'll be needin' me a strappin' lad to tug 'im loose."

"Aye, Gran-mum," Kaitlin said, tossing one more glance at her son before heading down. Once Brock went up, the others sat—a visible division between Mareth's group and the Do Úrdens—and waited.

Mareth, having noticed her people's withdrawal, had deliberately made her way over to sit by the Drow ranger. "I have heard much of you, but I never thought to meet you. Your fame is wide spread," she told him. She watched as a soft smile graced his handsome face.

"No doubt the tales are greatly exaggerated," he said. He then pulled a small onyx statuette from a pouch at his side, before turning to glance at the panther currently serving as a pillow for his grandson, Bruenor. "Guen. Time to rest, my friend." With a final lick to Bruenor's pointed ear, a grin at the dwarven king, and a head-butt to the ranger's chest, the panther dissipated.

"She is beautiful. You must feel blessed to have such an ally," Mareth remarked. Where praise of the ranger had only garnered a soft smile, praise of the panther won a glowing one, making the Drow ranger even more handsome than before. His modesty, as well as appreciation of those around him, caused her to honestly enjoy his company. Their conversation was listened to intently by both sides, the Do Úrdens frequently interjecting a comment more readily than her own group, though Neal proved to be a help at breaking down much of the barrier, as he drew the Drow, Bruenor, into what proved to be an amusing conversation.

"Despite what me mum might've led ye to believe. I'm no' always in trouble," Bruenor told the mage.

"Ha! Now that's a loud one," interjected a dwarf, one that had previously been talking with the Drow before Neal joined them.

"Now, Uncle Brek, what're ye sayin'?" Brek Battlehammer, son of Bruenor and Stumpet Battlehammer, leaned forward, locking his eyes on his young nephew's own.

"What abou' that lil' incident with the gray dwarves last month, lad?" Brek asked.

Bruenor quirked a brow at his uncle, "Now, uncle, if'n I bear any o' the fault fer that, then yerself does too! Ye were there, an' as me superior…"

That last remark caused the young dwarf to sputter, "Superior! As if ye'd 've listened to me! Ye're as hard-headed as Pwent!" He watched with satisfaction as his nephew fought for something to say, unknowingly comparing the elf to the Battlerager for the second time that day. "And what abou' that lil' problem we had with those goblins, wherein ye nearly flooded the mines?" the dwarf asked, a sly glint in his eye.

Bruenor's emerald eyes narrowed, all parties present were now intently listening, as he then gave a disdainful sniff, before replying, "Twas an accident an' ye know it."

"Then there were that time ye fell off tha' cliff…" His Uncle Pwent added, to which his Uncle Brek nodded, before continuing.

Bruenor heard his mother gasp. He raised his hands, waving them in hopes of stopping his uncles.

"Then there were that avalanche…" Bruenor slapped a hand over his eyes as the dwarves continued to list his misadventures, in the presence of his mother.

"Bruenor!" Bruenor jumped at his mother's exclamation, having missed the last indiscretion his uncle named.

He looked to the mage. "What'd he say?"

The mage fought the smile that was trying to overtake his face. "He said something about a giant's lair."

"Damned mouthy dwarves," Bruenor whispered, contemplating humiliating retribution. "Mum, it were necessary," he told her in his own defense.

"How is sneaking into a cave with a sleeping giant, to look for gold, necessary?" his mother demanded.

Bruenor turned a glare on his uncle. "Ye durned troll! Ye tol' her 'bout tha' one? Why no' t' other one?" Bruenor asked, his dwarven brogue becoming even more pronounced. He watched as his uncle's eyes sparkled with amusement, though Bruenor convinced himself it was pure mischief.

"I thought I'd let yerself tell it," his uncle said. "We're even now," Brek added, thinking of the last prank his nephew had pulled. "Never mess with a dwarf's beard, lad!" As the Drow's eyes widened in understanding, his attention was drawn back to his mother.

"What OTHER one?" his mother asked.


End file.
